Iron
by SyntaxSynodic
Summary: A cute headcanon about Jacket and Hooker. Lemon. (Re-uploaded to fix spelling errors)


**A/N: Oh hullo how did this happen?**

**Well you see, I tried to explain a headcanon I have a bout Jacket to my partner and this happened.**

**NO RAGRETS!(?)**

-**Scree**

He never actually talks to her. She never hears the horror she assumes to be his voice, just… silent interactions exchanged almost passively. She locks herself in his bathroom for very near two days. She can't figure out why he hadn't killed her… she'd just witnessed the brutal murder of at least ten men. '_Wouldn't it be easier to stab or bludgeon me to death..?' _When she finally exits the bathroom, he isn't home. It seems like he's never home. She wants to leave, but she can't bring herself to walk out the door. Even if she could leave, she couldn't work… not after _that._ Her stomach is still upset, and she knows she wouldn't be able to handle the heavy stench of sweat and cigarettes.

The door slams open and there he is; The face of a snarling wolf covers his own and he is positively coated in blood. He stumbles in, one leg dragging behind the other like an unwilling companion. The bat is dropped immediately and crimson liquid spatters across the floor. The mask joins the blunt weapon a moment later. The door slams shut and he falls back against it, sinking to the floor as ragged exhalation bursts from his lungs. He rubs his forehead with bloodied hands, and his previously unmarred face is stained vermillion. After a moment, he notices her there and his cloudy azure eyes avoid her gaze. He gestures tiredly to his room and returns his hands to his face. She takes the hint, no longer able to stand the smell of iron. She retreats to the bedroom, surprised to find another mattress on the floor beside his. It is made tidily, a brightly coloured blanket lays unused on top.

He made her a bed…? She doesn't want to think about it or try to figure it out. The soft blanket feels so warm and welcoming against her cold skin. Not even the sound of the bathroom door and the sound of running water can stop her from drifting off.

When she wakes, it is light outside. The sound of the bedroom door opening sets off a flutter of panic in her chest, and she turns to the door. She expects to see him in all of his bloody glory: mask, bat, and red. Instead, he is standing there in his letter jacket with… a box of pizza. The smell hits her immediately, greasy and delicious smelling. He lifts his eyebrows in a questioning way and gestures to the box.

"Oh, uhm. Yes please…?" she asks more than says. Her stomach growls. A grin builds itself upon the canvas of his face, which is no longer covered in red. He steps out and beckons her into the kitchen. She follows with no question.

On the fourth night, she hears come home. The bat clatters again, and his ragged panting makes her shift uneasily. Through the wall she hears water running, and the bathroom door slams shut. She closes her eyes, but she can't sleep for anything… She knows what he's done and can't swallow the bile in her stomach. When she was eating with him, he smelled strongly of iron, even though his hair was still wet from bathing.

About an hour later, he sees her sitting up awake on her little bed. She's a bit scared of him, but not as scared as she was at first. He seems to be embarrassed: only a towel adorns his waist.

He gazes briefly at her, then opens the closet and throws the cleaned bat and mask in. He takes a shirt and a pair of boxers out, then he exits the room for a moment and returns fully dressed with a glass of water and melatonin tablet to help her sleep.

"Wh... why are you being so nice to me?" she asks incredulously.

He doesn't reply. He never does. He just gives her a sad look and pulls back his sheets and retires for the night.

Later that night, he wakes her by gently shaking her shoulder. She sees his face, and his eyes are wide with need. She knows that look.

In his clenched fist, a wad of cash crinkles crisply. He holds up the money in question, and she can't help but feel a bit motherly.

"Do... do you want what I think you want, sugar?" She asks a bit breathlessly. She has always been attracted to dangerous men, and this man came home covered in blood every day.

"Yes."

The shock of hearing his voice renders her speechless. It is a ragged tenor, rough and croaky as if it has been inactive for a very long time. It sends a pleasant electricity through her body. She slowly opens his clenched fist with small, deft hands. The bills are pressed against her much smaller palms, and she can feel the callouses on his powerful hands. She gulps. She's been with men like this one before. Men with thunder in their veins. Men with uncontrollable rage who left her body worn and exhausted. As his hand leaves hers, she braces herself for the impact of his gun barrel arms.

She instead feels chapped lips pressing against her forehead. Her eyes flutter open in surprise and his enigmatic grey blue eyes stare back. His hands reposition themselves on the flare of her hips. He nuzzles her neck ever so gently she finds herself blushing. _Blushing_. The bridge of his nose traces her chin, and she can feel the tell tale bump of a nose that has been broken. She feels him move down to her collarbone and his lips graze the raised skin there. Tenderly, so tenderly.

She feels him place tiny kisses from her collar bone back up to her neck; however they're growing increasingly desperate. His hands gently squeeze the flesh of her sides and she lets out a shaky little breath. It is almost as if she is being... romanced. He pulls on the hem of the pajama pants he'd given her the day he brought her into his apartment. She remembers how exhausted he seemed after the mask came off. The tense pressure in his hunched shoulders as he hurriedly guided her to the bathroom and started her a bath must've ricocheted through many men that day, however he was seemingly flustered by _her nakedness_. Even though she hadn't been covered in coagulating visceral blood, he let her have the bathroom first...

A warm, wet sensation slides across her collarbone, and she shivers. A heavy rumble sounds in the hollow mountain of his chest, and she realizes he is staring at her arms. They are covered in goosebumps. He pushes stray locks of hair from her face and rubs her arm with the other. His steel blue eyes lock on hers, and she finds herself unable to meet his gaze for very long. She feels the gentle sensation of his too-big flannel pants being pulled down from the arches of her hipbones. She knows the drill. She lifts her pelvis and they slide off easily. After she hears the material hit the floor, she no longer feels his hands. She blinks and looks up, only to find him... looking down at her, flushed cheeks, hands outstretched but trembling noticeably.

"Y-you okay?" he seems startled by her question, and his slate blue orbs meet hers again. His lips are slightly parted and she recognizes that the look in his eyes is a mix of apprehension and... a question. _'He wants to know if...'_

"Yes," she breathes, and she feels the rough warmth of his hands on her supple thighs. The flush on her cheeks spreads to her chest. _'He wouldn't continue to touch me without my permission...'_ that thought excites her more than anything else in this moment. She arches gratefully into his gentle petting. When she looks at him, his bottom lip is fixed under his teeth and his eyes are dark with satisfaction. His hands trail back over her hips and his fingertips rest just underneath the hem of her borrowed shirt. He looks up with that intoxicating gaze but she's ahead of him this time.

"Yes, please," she pleads. She is amazed by the pleasant burn of his sandpaper skin and how good it feels as his hands slide higher and higher, moving the cotton fabric up with them. _'I haven't felt this way since high school...'_ his fingers pause as they meet the underside of her breasts and he doesn't have time to look up and ask.

"You better not stop, sugar... ohh..." He continues shyly, slowly, _ever so slowly_ covering the surface of her bare breasts completely with the flesh of his palms. A gentle squeeze elicits a moan that even she is ashamed of. She feels him startle, but when she looks up, he has the biggest, goofiest grin she's seen and she wonders why the fuck it's so sexy...

His fingers gently draw up the sides of her breasts, and she nearly bursts with the anticipation of feeling those wonderful callouses on her now hardened nipples.

"Please!" She begs, and it draws forth a low, ragged whimper from him. He skips using his fingers all together, and opts for his mouth. When she recognizes his silent decision, she nearly screams in delight as he leans forward. The cavern of his mouth is hot and wet and her nerve endings send pleasure bursting through her veins. She can't hold back her sounds of rapture. One hand stays on her ribcage, holding her gently, and the other hand slides down torturously slowly.

She bucks against that borderline cruel hand, then lets out a breathy laugh for viewing _that_ action as cruel. This man knows cruel, he still reeks of iron as evidence! And yet, his hands and his mouth are so soft, so passionate, so ready to bring pleasure. He lets out noises anyone would normally mistake for growls, but there is no threat or dominance in the sound, only impossible amounts of enjoyment. His hand finally finds its destination. She freezes as she feels the slight pressure on her lips.

"Mnn.." she lets out an encouraging whine to speed him along. "You don't have to ask, I want it, I want you..." He starts to rub in small circles as he gently kisses and suckles her breast. She is a mess of moans a whimpers, and she bucks desperately against that fantastic hand. He slides up to claim her lips, and she kisses him back eagerly, her own hand sliding down to guide his. She pulls his fingers further down, and encourages him to enter. The kiss is broken as they both gasp; three of his fingers are buried in her, and she is so slick...

He lets out a hushed, frayed moan against her lips and begins it delve his fingers in and out of her chambers. She reaches for the painful looking tent in his boxers, but he pushes her hand away gently and brings it to his lips. He kisses every one of her fingers, then quickens his pace and intensity.

She arches and cries out as his fingers stroke a particularly sensitive part of her anatomy.

"Fuck!" She doesn't even know his name, or what to call him, so she opts for curses to fill the cavern of her mouth instead. He starts to murmur and she nearly orgasms as she realizes he's speaking again.

"Come on... come on, dear... I want you to receive pleasure for a change, those dirty men probably had their hands all... all over..." He seems to get frustrated by the thought, and his pace gets more desperate. "I have to clean you," he slides his face down. "Please. God, please." He eyes the cavern he's ravishing with his fingers so hungrily that she takes her hand and guides his head so that his mouth is pressed right up against her dripping, lubricious lips. He groans gratefully and works her with his fingers and mouth, and almost immediately, she begins bucking her hips. He slides his free hand under her backside encouragingly, helping her grind against his face.

Finally, finally, she cums. He feels her spasm around his fingers and she wettens his tongue with small, sweet gushes. His swollen member twitches violently, and he looks up at her face- and his self control bursts. He cums as well, moaning his completion raggedly. He rests his cheek on the arch of her pubis, breathing hard. After a moment, he shakily makes his way to the bathroom, and returns a with a warm rag to clean her up. He cleans himself when he's done, and throws the soiled boxers on the floor by his bed. He pulls on another pair and curls up next to her. They blissfully drift off.


End file.
